For Baby, June 2010

Your mother and I, baby, we were friends when it mattered most, we knew each other when we didn't know the first thing about knowing. Feet in chunky shoes on wooden floors, muddy and wet, in sandals, toenails awful-colored -- blues, greens, yellows. We ruled the world from her bed, we knew everything, we hated with passion and loved each other vaguely. I couldn't tell you the first thing about her hopes her fears and your father -- but your mother and I, baby, we love each other still like children. All that matters is that we loved when it mattered most, when we didn't know the first thing about knowing.